


Stay

by WickedNerdAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Little Bit of Humor, A little bit of fluff, Anal Sex, Angry Castiel, Angry Dean, Brief oral sex, Canon Compliant, Coda, Concerned Sam, Depressed Castiel, Detached Dean, Episode 14x18 Coda, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Grief Sex, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Sam, M/M, Supportive Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedNerdAngel/pseuds/WickedNerdAngel
Summary: It's eight o'clock Sunday morning. The human 'Day of Worship' for those who believe. As an angel on earth, it used to be the day to seek Revelation. Not today. no, today is none of those things. Today... is the third day after Mary Winchester's death.





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This only took me a week because I'm slow as hell!  
> Three words: Explosive. Grief. Sex.  
> Enjoy!

Stay

(Episode 14x18 coda)

By

WickedNerdAngel

 

_I know it's late,_

_I know you're weary,_

_I know your plans don't include me._

_We've got tonight,_

_Who needs tomorrow,_

_We've got tonight, babe,_

_Why don't you stay._

 

The drive back to the bunker, after saying a final goodbye to the shell that was supposed to be Mary Winchester, is daunting in every sense of the word. Castiel sits in the backseat of the Impala, Sam and Dean in the front, which isn't unusual, but there's no music, no words spoken; anger, despair and regret hangs in the air like a suffocating fog around them, and it just feels so _wrong._ There's no peace to be had between the three of them, and although the angel _knows_ Mary is happy, saw her at peace with his own two eyes, he's never wished his wings weren't broken more than this moment, so he could _zap_ \- as Dean would say it - his way out of the confines of this cab, and give Dean what he wants.

_You're dead to me._

He knows Dean was angry. He _knows_ Dean was terrified, and probably didn't mean those words. He _knows_ Dean Winchester… doesn't really want him gone, but the surface feelings are overwhelming him, and in this moment, he wants to obey those harsh words. But The Entity was clear. Castiel won't be taken until he's truly happy; something the angel muses may never happen. Therefore cursed, miserable and melancholy seem to be his legacy.

When they finally reach the bunker, Castiel doesn't go in. He _can't._ Too many reminders of his failings in there. Instead, with downcast eyes, he mumbles something about needing to 'check something in his truck,’ which he'll admit is ridiculous, even for a clueless angel, but he just… needs a minute, or several. Before he even realizes what he's doing, the truck's in drive, and he's peeling away from the half-hidden bunker door, the concerned stare of Sam, and the steely, frozen scowl of Dean burned into his periphery.

Castiel's truck moans and sputters occasionally, as if it, too, is mourning the loss of Mother Winchester, and he tries to care… he really tries but he can't. He has no affection for the countless vehicles he’s commandeered, like Dean has with his Impala. There's no history there. No precious family member to give laudation to for having gifted any of them to him. There's just… _no family_.

He feels drained; his arms and legs aching as though he's just fought off a garrison of his own kind, but the muscle that's aching the most is his heart. It seizes and stutters in his chest as he thinks about all the actions he _could've_ taken to stop this from happening. _'I failed you,’_ he'd said, speaking directly to Dean, and he meant every word of it. _Means_ every word if it still.

He wants to pull this truck over in the middle of nowhere and scream, curse his father for not being around; for not helping them; for not helping his own _grandson._ And for the longest time, he doesn't. He drives. Alone. Letting the darkness both inside and outside of the cab cradle him, seep around him like grief-stricken fingers he's willing to let strangle him. He lets his worry, his fear, both _of_ and _for_ Jack, and his remorse for letting his family down once again overcome him until he can't take it anymore.

He violently yanks the steering wheel to the right, the truck's tires skidding on the loose gravel of the shoulder, before finally lurching to stop, and shoves the creaking door wide open. Dragging himself out into the night air, he slams the door shut with such force, it buckles against the frame, and he doesn't care. The angel fills his lungs with air before he screams out into the inky sky.

“WHERE WERE YOU?”

“The Winchesters, they NEEDED you!” His breath comes out in a rush and he whispers, _“I_ needed you.”

Another sharp intake of breath. “YOUR GRANDSON IS OUT THERE...ALONE. CONFUSED. DANGEROUS… and you're, what? Oblivious? Blatantly ignoring EVERYTHING as usual?”

“HELP ME!” he cries out before falling to his knees. “Please. Help me help _him_ , help _them,_ just-” His throat aches. It's barely a whisper now. “Anael was right.” He grits his teeth. “She was right. You'd rather watch humanity die screaming than do anything.” He gathers a fist full of gravel, squeezing the stones in his palm so hard, he feels the warmth of his own blood. “You're complacent. You… are… worthless,” he bites out between breaths, “and I HATE you.” He slings the gravel in his hand as hard as he can across the field next to the road.

“I. Hate. You.”

There is wetness on his cheeks; something that's incredibly rare for an 'angel of the Lord,’ though he hardly feels like one anymore. He doesn't realize he'd been sobbing until his breath stutters in his throat, and his hands angrily attempt to rid his face of the tears. He doesn't even bother wiping off the knees of his slacks; evidence of his pathetic plea to a non-existent father. It's a reminder that he will _not_ be that father. _If he ever gets the chance to be a father again._

He pulls the mangled driver's door open with one hand - something no human would be able to do, given the damage to it now - and thinks that if Dean ever forgives him, maybe he'll wonder what happened to it… _“what, did a deer attempt to off itself waiting for you to get the hell outta the way? Because I sure as shit know you weren't going fast enough to actually hit one and cause this kinda damage.”_ Maybe he'd offer to fix it too, in his grumpy, I-don't-have-time-for-this-shit,-Cas-learn-how-to-drive, kind of way. The angel's lips attempt to twitch into a smile at the thought, though they don't quite make it.

His perfunctory drive back almost lands him in a ditch once or twice, so he reluctantly turns on the radio, a distraction from the thoughts that plague him. He instantly recognizes the melody flooding through his speakers. A sad smile does, in fact, creep across his lips at the sudden influx of memories it provides him.

He and Dean were on a hunt together a few years before. Rugaru, if he remembers correctly near Little Rock, Arkansas. They disposed of it rather easily, but there was another one they hadn't been expecting. It, quite literally, nearly ate Dean alive before the angel could get to it, and _gank_ it, as Dean would also say - no blow torch necessary. He remembers the shear terror he felt, with Dean in that abomination's clutches, followed by fury, rage and determination. He imagines that Dean is most likely at one of those last two stages with regards to his mother… and that terrifies Castiel.

He sighs, shrugging that tumultuous feeling off as quickly as he can, replacing it in his mind's eye with the expression of unequivocal relief and gratitude that adorned Dean's dirty, bloodstained, yet still remarkably beautiful face afterwards. And in the Impala, on the long drive home, they let the music engulf them. It's this song, he remembers the most.

_“Ya see, Cas, Seger… always gets a pass.”_ Dean had said. _“You wanna know why?”_ Castiel had just looked over at him fondly, and nodded. _“Because he's cool, that's why.”_

_“Cool?” Cas asked, chuckling._

_“Yeah, man! Cool.” He stared at Castiel. “Cool as shit.”_ The exasperated look of a teacher frustrated with a pupil who's not quite getting it has Castiel chuckling to himself alone in his own truck. _“He’s cool without trying, ya know? Without being over the top, like some. He's… awesome.”_ That child-like smile, so rare in it's occurrence. That look of unwavering contentment as Dean talked effortlessly about the music he loves, is a memory that Castiel will keep with him and cherish, always.

_“But Dean,”_ the angel had mused aloud, his curiosity genuine, _“this sounds like a love song. I thought you only liked the faster-paced melodies?”_ Castiel's insides flutter as he recalls the way Dean snorted out a laugh, then tried to cover it with a cough. They flutter even more when he remembers the sidelong glance in his direction, and the way Dean's smile turned soft and wistful.

_“Naw, Cas. I like this one,” he said. “This song… it’s,” his exhale was rushed, “it's good.”_

Castiel will never forget that moment, because that was the first time Dean slid his hand towards the angel's; and the first time a tentative pinky finger curled around his own.

***

It's been three days. _Three days_. Three days, thirteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and the angel is crawling out of his human skin. You know, there was a time in the more-than-millenia he's been existing, that he'd have thought a timeframe so minute to be nothing. The blink of an eye. Barely a drop in the ocean of time and space, and in the grand scheme of things… it is. But now, a period of time that long where he and Dean are avoiding one another like the Bubonic Plague, is nothing short of excruciating.

They've passed each other in the halls of the bunker, locking eyes as they sidled past, only to avert them just as quickly. Castiel has gone into the kitchen for coffee once or twice these past mornings, stopping abruptly at the door upon seeing Dean leaning against the counter, his own cup cradled in his palm. Every time, Dean left the kitchen without uttering a word; left the angel behind to wonder if they'd ever get back to where they were. Castiel's caught himself, while perusing ancient lore in the middle of the night, rushing to Dean's bedroom door, his hand instinctively reaching for the knob and his forehead pressing against the old wood, forcing himself to stay where he is upon hearing anguished grunts, and screams of, _“No! Mom? Mom!”_ Sam usually meets him there and shakes his head sadly.

“It won't do any good, Cas. It's just nightmares,” he says.

There's almost a breakthrough on the second night. Castiel finds Dean in the library, quietly reading through an old text. The picture on the page he's reading, Castiel recognizes as the biblical illustration of a nephilim. Dean glances in his direction, his expression pensive, but continues reading, and the angel takes a chance.

“Dean?”

“Cas,” is the quipped response, he gets.

“Dean, we're going to find him.”

“Mmm.” The sound is less than optimistic.

“We are. I promi-”

“Don't say you promise,” Dean's head snaps towards him, brows furrowed, green eyes blazing.

“Dean, I'm sorry-” he's cut off by Dean's harsh, clipped tone again.

_“Don't!_ He's standing now, the chair he was occupying having toppled to the floor, and the book slammed on the table faster than Castiel can imagine. The angel jumps.

“Dean,” he breathes, his hands raised, palms outstretched towards the anguished man he's facing.

“Cas, I _can’t!”_ Dean growls out. “I-” his face crumples, and Castiel’s heart shatters. “I can’t do this right now!” And suddenly, the angel is watching Dean’s back as he disappears down the hallway. Moments later, he hears a door slam, and he sighs.

He’s just picking up the disabled chair, when Sam rounds the corner and heads straight for him. Castiel sighs, bracing himself for the backlash he most certainly deserves.

“Cas?” The angel dares a glance at the taller hunter’s face, surprised to see no malice, no anger, only unadulterated concern. “What happened?”

Castiel sinks into the chair he’d just upturned and sighs, his head falling into his hands. “I don’t know what to do, Sam. I’m-I’m at a loss. I… just tried to tell him we’d find Jack, and that I’m sorry.” He looks up at the looming figure before him with tired, watery eyes. Sam’s expression is grim. His hazel eyes red-rimmed and glossy. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” the angel chokes out.

The younger Winchester’s hand comes down softly on Castiel’s shoulder, fingers squeezing gently. “I’d say ‘it’s okay,’ but it’s not okay… not really.” Castiel nods in solemn reverence. “I don’t blame you, Cas,” Sam continues, “this thing with Jack, and Mom,” he shakes his head, “it’s on all of us, ya know?” Sam’s nodding now, the question rhetorical, and Castiel attempts a comforting, sympathetic smile. “And Dean-”

“Will never forgive me for this,” Cas interrupts.

Sam pats between the angel’s shoulder blades once and steps back. “He will. I know he will, Cas.” He nods again. “He knows this isn’t just on you. He just… he just needs time.” Castiel nods in affirmation, though he’s not sure he believes it, but Sam continues. “Dean doesn’t, um, process these things all that well. you know that about him, Cas. He’s, uh, I-I guess he probably never learned how.” Sam’s voice is wavering, no doubt thinking about the weight his older brother has carried his entire life. Castiel thinks Sam’s carried much of that weight too, but he doesn’t voice it. “S-So, he lashes out, ya know?” He blinks, sniffs, and the angel wants nothing more than to protect him, protect _both_ of them. Take this burden and pain away.

“I know, Sam,” Castiel offers.

“He says things he doesn’t mean, and I’m telling you, Cas, he didn’t mean that. He, um, h-he loves you… as much as I do, and more.” Castiel’s eyes widen at that. “I think you know that, somewhere inside that self-loathing vessel of yours.” Sam smiles sadly. “Seems you and my brother have that in common.”

“Which part?” the angel wonders aloud.

“Both.” And with that, Sam’s patting him on the shoulder again, and walking away.

Castiel doesn’t know how long he sits in that chair, in that library, mind reeling over things spoken and unspoken, praying to no one (because God certainly isn’t listening, and the angels are hard pressed to help him in any way) that they do find Jack, they save him… and they save themselves in the process. What he does know is that there’s no screaming, no nightmares coming from Dean’s room tonight, and that, at least, is an answered prayer.

***

It’s eight o’clock Sunday morning. The human ‘Day of Worship’ for those who believe. As an angel on earth, it _used_ to be the day to seek Revelation. Not today. No, today is none of those things. Today… is the third day after Mary Winchester’s death.

Castiel finds himself in the kitchen, as is his usual routine nowadays, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Black. He likes to taste the bitter nectar of the beans on his tongue, not the artificial flavor that cream and sugar seem to bring out in it. It’s an unpopular opinion, he knows. He feels… different this morning. He’s irritable in a way that’s unusual for him. Not angry; not really, but simply irritated. Hours upon hours, he’s spent scouring through lore; scouring through his own knowledge; searching online for _angelic_ signs, unusual signs; all the while he was praying, and nothing. There’s _nothing_ to show for it. He’s not hopeless. He knows, even if it kills all three of them, they’ll find a way to get through this, but this morning, he feels as far from _God_ and his heavenly _family_ as he can possibly get. He’s almost apathetic in this current moment, and if he thinks about that long enough, it’ll terrify him.

His back is to the doorway when he hears movement behind him. As if someone started walking in the room, but stopped abruptly. He turns his head, looking through his peripheral vision, and sees Dean, sleep rumpled, hair in disarray, and overall stunning. He shifts his eyes a little more to see that Dean is staring at him, his expression unreadable, blank, and it sparks a fire deep in his belly that he wasn’t expecting. Suddenly, he’s no longer apathetic. He’s _angry._ Irrationally so, that much is obvious to him, but he’s feeling it, nonetheless. He snaps his head back to the sink, pours the remains of his coffee in the basin, and tears toward the opposite doorway.

“Where are you going?” a gruff voice asks.

“Out,” Castiel answers coldy, his pace picking up until he’s not only out of the kitchen, but out of the bunker and in his truck again.

He’s gone the entire day. He avoids multiple calls from Sam, _because of course Dean doesn’t bother to call. Why would he?_ He avoids looking at his phone when the equally multiple text notifications start coming. He goes back to the old cabin, the site of Mary’s death, and he retraces everything, desperately looking for a clue. What kind, he has no idea. He goes back to the playground that marks the entrance to heaven, shouting once again that he’s not leaving until _someone_ comes down and speaks to him. He feels a little chagrined when, once again, it’s Duma tasked with humoring him, but he doesn’t show it. Instead he interrogates her on any intel they might have on his nephilim son. She insists they’ve heard nothing and have no idea where the boy is. He believes her, but his eyes glow with grace and rage when she admits that they have scouts out looking for him.

“If you hurt him…”

“Castiel,” she laughs, “he’s the most powerful being in this universe at the moment. We would be naive to think we could hurt him.”

“Then why?” the angel narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“We _need_ him, Castiel. Or have you forgotten that your _home_ is dying?”

“I needn’t be reminded of that, Duma,” Castiel quips, “But there has to be another way.”

“Well, we’re all ears, rebel,” her tone is condescending, and Castiel clenches his fists, remaining silent because he’s nonplussed for a solution to Heaven’s problem. If he’s being completely honest, he’s remiss about it, though he knows he shouldn’t be. “But no one’s come up with a viable solution, and God… well, you know his track record of late when it comes to helpfulness.”

“No,” Castiel replies simply. “Jack is not a tool for you.”

“Oh? He’s half _archangel_ , Castiel. Does he not have an obligation to his brethren? Has he not been a _tool_ for you and the Winchesters?”

“No, he doesn’t, and _no_ , he hasn’t. He’s family.”

“Well,” Duma smiles, a hint of sadness in her brown eyes, “Good luck to you then, Castiel. We’re done here.”

She goes up in a cloud of grace before Castiel can say another word, and now he’s even more angry than when he started. Determined, compelled, and _angry._

Once back in his truck, after nearly mangling his steering wheel from gripping it so tightly, he cautiously checks his text messages. They’re all from Sam.

**Cas? What’s going on?!**

**Hey, where did you go? Can you call me back??**

**WHERE ARE YOU??**

**Cas! It’s been hours. CALL ME BACK goddamn it!**

**Cas, please. We’re worried. Please call.**

_We’re_ worried? _We?_ Castiel shakes his head. Sam’s a peacemaker between him and Dean. He always has been. He was probably just saying anything he could because _Sam_ is worried. But if Dean is worried too, that doesn’t mean he’s going to talk to Castiel. Being angry and worried isn’t unusual in any way. It’s interchangeable, in fact. Nevertheless, Castiel sighs and returns a text to Sam.

**I’m sorry, Sam. I’m fine. Researching. No leads, unfortunately. I’m coming back now.**

His phone rings once more, on his drive back, but he ignores it. He doesn’t trust his voice, nor his ability to hold a civil conversation at the moment. Inky blackness surrounds him once again.  

***

Castiel enters the bunker as quietly as he can, given the screech of the bunker door. He feels weary, it’s late, and all he wants to do is retire to his room to wallow in all his failings, but he hears voices coming from the kitchen. One voice in particular, and it sends a painful flutter through his stomach.

“What time is he coming back?” It’s Dean’s voice. “Well, what did he SAY, Sam?”

“He _didn’t_ , Dean,” he hears Sam’s reply as he rounds the doorway, seeing them facing off in the kitchen.

“Oh!” Dean throws his hands in the air, slamming them back down against his sides when he sees Castiel. “Nice of you to _grace_ us with your presence! Maybe we should lock you in the dungeon! Y’know curfew was HOURS ago!” Castiel squares his shoulders in Dean’s direction and glares.

_“Dean!”_ Sam chides.

“Oh, whatever.” Dean’s tone is that of a petulant teenager, and that angers Castiel even more because it makes him think of Jack. He clenches his fists, not for the first time today, and spins on his heel to leave.

“Where are you going?” Dean growls.

Castiel turns his head slightly to the side to address him. “To. My. Room,” tone clipped and equally petulant.

“I wanna _talk_ to you!” Dean yells.

The angel turns all the way around now to look, or continue glaring, rather, at Dean. “I don’t feel much like _talking, Dean.”_

“Oh, I could give two shits…” Dean retorts through gritted teeth.

“Okay, I’m… gonna go talk to Bobby.” Sam says, running a hand through his long hair.

“You do that,” Dean addresses Sam while still staring pointedly at Castiel.

“Don’t kill each other while I’m gone, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean tears stormy green eyes from Cas to scowl at Sam. “ _Really, Sam?”_

Sam curses under his breath. “Poor choice of words. My bad.” He walks swiftly toward the doorway Castiel is standing in. “Don’t spill any blood. Better?” But he doesn’t wait for a response, instead disappearing down the hall.

When they hear the bunker door open and slam closed, the angel rolls his eyes, leaving Dean in the kitchen alone as he makes his way to his room, slamming the door for good measure. He’s shaking as he walks over to his bed and sits down tentatively. Mostly because he didn’t expect so much vitriol from Dean, but also because he’s incredibly confused as to what the _hell_ is going on. Is this it? Does Dean want him to pack up what little amount he owns and leave the bunker? The place he’s called home for the past several years? If that’s what Dean wants, he’ll do it without question. He’ll be destroyed, but he’ll do it.

He doesn’t have much more time to think to himself before there’s a knock at his door. Quite frankly, he’s shocked that there isn’t a violent pounding on it, or a foot slamming against it to shatter it at the hinges. Maybe if Castiel doesn’t answer long enough, there will be. He doesn’t know - or want to know - why he actually wants that to happen. There’s another round of knocks, and a quiet, “Cas,” before he finally gets up, heart pounding, and reaches for the knob. When he opens the door, Dean stumbles before caching himself, as if he’d been leaning on it, waiting for the angel to answer. The hunter trains his expression back to his trademark scowl, and Castiel’s too fatigued to play this game.

“What?” he barks.

Dean seems taken aback momentarily by his icy reception. “What?” Dean mirrors, scowl still in place. Castiel sighs. Brows raised in challenge, he stares at the insufferable man in front of him. “I… wanted to talk to you,” Dean says flatly.

“Well you made that abundantly, and _rudely_ clear in the kitchen, Dean. And I thought I made myself clear as well. I’m tired.”

“Tired? Cas…” There’s that look. The one Dean makes when he knows he was wrong, but he’s trying to smooth things over without admitting it, and Castiel isn’t having any of it.

“Run down? Weary?” he replies, “You know, angels are _capable_ of being stressed to the point of fatigue, Dean.”

“Cas,” his expression has sobered now. His eyelids have squeezed closed, brow furrowed as if he has more to say, but can’t get it out. Castiel sees an opportunity to open the flood gates, so to speak, and so he does.

“I’ve _tried_ , Dean. I’ve tried to talk to you. Tried to redeem myself somehow to you. _Tried_ to make you see that I’m hurting too...”

“Shut up,” it’s a mere whisper that Castiel ignores.

“...but nothing, _nothing_ I do seems to help. I went out today to try to find some kind of lead, _something_ to tell us where he is, so we can _find him_ , and nothing!”

“Cas, please,”

“Nothing I do works. _Nothing_ is good enough! I-I have to fix this, and I don’t know how! I-” he takes a shuddering breath, “have to make this right, and I’m failing _again!”_

“No, Cas.” Dean is shaking his head now. Castiel ignores it.

“I don’t know what I can do for you, anymore, Dean! I don’t know what you want from me!”

“I want-”

“ _What?”_ Castiel shouts. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to leave? Would that give you peace? Make you happy?”

“No!” He looks angry again. It fuels the angel.

“Then WHAT, DEAN?”

Dean moves lightning fast. Fisting the lapel of Castiel’s coat with both hands and slamming his back against the wall next to the door. His lips are mere inches from the angel’s, and Castiel is unsure whether it’s the close proximity or the violence that has his breath leaving him in a rush, but he’s betting on the former.

_“Listen_ to me, you asshole!” Dean bellows.

“I'm _trying_ to, Dean!” Castiel counters. He pushes Dean off of him, as much as he wants to do the exact opposite, the hunter stumbling back only a few inches. “But you hate me, remember?” Dean's nostrils flair, rage and anguish warring for precedence with his features. “I'm _dead_ to you. _Remember?”_

“Fuck you, Cas,” Dean's tone has softened, but his face is still stone.

“Fuck you too, Dean!” Castiel plants his feet, eyeing Dean's clenched fists. He speculates a punch is coming, but it doesn't, so the angel elaborates. “So of you just came in here to 'rough me up,’” he air quotes, “please… just… leave me alone.”

“Fat fucking chance,” Dean snarls.

The angel squares his jaw. “Then I'll ask you one more time before I throw you out of my room. What. The _hell_. Do you WANT?”

Dean grabs him again, slamming him harder against the wall, leaning in closer, and Castiel feels dizzy. He knows it's not from the hit.

“I want…” it comes out a half growl, half whimper, and Castiel can’t feel his legs.

“What do you want, Dean?” he whispers. It’s all he can do. “Please just… tell me what you want.”

Dean’s hands release his lapel and slide up his neck until they’re both cradling Castiel’s face. Blue eyes stare in shock at jade green irises, tumultuous, bloodshot, red-rimmed... _How can they still be so beautiful like this?_ Dean presses his forehead against Castiel's, their breaths mingling as their chests heave.

“I want…” he pauses again and this time, the angel stays silent, waiting. But before Dean's says another word, his lips are on Castiel's, parting them, sucking, Castiel giving every inch of what he's getting, and when Dean licks into his mouth, the angel moans. Dean pulls back. Breathless, he says, “Stay.” Castiel has no time to respond before Dean's lips are on his again. They trail across the angel's stubbled jaw, up to his ear, and he whispers, “stay with me, Cas,” before pulling the lobe of it between his lips. Castiel shudders. His arms snake around Dean's waist, and pull him closer.

“I will,” Castiel answers, “of course I will, Dean.”

Dean moves back to where he was, pressing his forehead against Castiel's again. “I don't want you to leave.”

“I won't.”

“Promise me,” Dean pleads.

“I promise.” It's Castiel who leans in this time, kissing Dean softly, but Dean's too hungry for it. He launches towards the angel, pressing him hard against the wall, devouring, pleading with the action of his lips, and Castiel is straining against his pants. He pushes Dean back, breaking the kiss before the fire consumes him, and Dean looks crushed.

“I'm _sorry,_ Cas!” Dean cries. Backing up, he runs trembling fingers through his hair. There are tears in his eyes and Castiel's heart shatters again.

“Dean no-”

“Fuck! I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't have said that to you…” he rambles, each word sounding more desperate than the last, “when you died, I couldn't… I-I wasn't… _fuck_ , I'll go.” He's shutting down. Castiel knows what happens when Dean shuts down, and he's not about to let it this time. Not anymore. He beats the frazzled hunter to the door and shoves him backwards.

“STOP,” he shouts. Dean just stares at him in shock. “I don’t _want_ you to go, Dean!”

“I don’t-” Dean starts, his voice wavering.

“Just shut up,” the angel growls, lunging towards him and this time, it’s Castiel who shoves Dean against the wall. He kisses the man so hard, he fears he’ll leave his lips bruised and swollen, but Dean only kisses back harder, his hands flying to Castiel’s hair, fingers tanging, pulling, making a mess of already messy locks, and that’s the last thing the angel cares about. He runs his hands down Dean’s torso, sliding them around to his ass, and squeezes lightly, just a tease, but Dean bucks into him. It’s exhilarating. It sends sparks of heat the angel didn’t even realize were possible through his body, and he reciprocates in kind. He moves his lips to the hunter’s chin, teeth scraping along his jaw. Dean moans; his legs buckle, and Castiel holds him up.

“What do  you want, Dean?” the angel asks quietly into the shell of his ear. Dean’s hips piston again.

“I want you,” Dean groans. “Want you so fucking bad, Cas. For-fucking-ever.”

Castiel pulls back and looks at him. He searches for any fallacies in Dean’s features and finds none. He knew he wouldn’t. “Then you’ll have me forever, Dean. I told you,” he nibbles the man's lip, their noses pressing together, “I'm here as long as you want me to be and I meant it.”

“I always want you, Cas, I'm so-”

“Don't,” it's Castiel who shuts him down this time with another ravaging kiss that makes the hunter grind into him, moaning. “Don't apologize,” he continues, “you're grieving.”

“So are you, _shit,”_ Dean gasps as Castiel sucks on his Adam's apple.

“Too much talking,” the angel growls, “I want you too, Dean,” he drags his lips up to Dean's panting mouth, speaking directly into it, “but tonight, I want all of you.”

Dean tries to nod, but Castiel's hands hold the hunter's head, paralyzed. “Cas, _please,”_ he begs.

“Say it, Dean. You give me consent to take you?”

Dean groans in response. “You fucking serious, angel? I’m practically humping you.” He huffs when fiery blue eyes bear into his. “ _Yes...fuck,”_ he grinds into Castiel, eliciting a satisfying jaw-clench from the angel. _“Cas, please.”_

Castiel doesn’t hesitate now. He pushes the foul-mouthed hunter towards the bed, stripping him of his flannel, t-shirt, tugging at the fly of his jeans as they go. Dean reciprocates in kind, clumsily pulling the trench coat off, fumbling with buttons, yanking at a frustrating blue tie. Somewhere along the journey to the bed, shoes are discarded, until Dean’s falling back on the mattress and the angel is hovering over him. Castiel attacks his mouth, teeth nearly clashing in the process, sucking Dean’s bottom lip between his own before licking, tongue searching for Dean’s. The older Winchester’s hands roam all over Castiel’s body, resting on the angel’s ass cheeks before he tugs him suffocatingly closer. They both moan, chests heaving as their erections slide together, and Castiel is flying without wings. He stops, taking a moment to gaze at his hunter beneath him, cataloguing every sharp angle of his face, every freckle smattered across his nose.

_He’s beautiful._

“What?” Dean breathes, looking up at Castiel with questions in his stunning, moss green eyes.

“Nothing,” the angel smiles before dipping down, capturing Dean’s chin with his lips. He moves down, licking and sucking his way to each nipple, Dean’s back arching off the bed, the sounds he’s making fueling the angel onward until he reaches the apex of his thigh and groin.

_“Fuck_ ,” Dean’s panting as Castiel hovers over him, he himself hardening even more when Dean cries out as Castiel takes him into his mouth. It’s fleeting. _Just a taste_ , he tells himself, though he doesn’t want to stop. He gives one last lick for good measure before dragging himself up the hunter’s body again.

“I want inside you, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. He can’t seem to get any words out, so he simply nods - vigorously - instead. He does get one word out, though it’s breathy and barely audible. “Lube.”

“You know I don’t need that,” Castiel chides playfully, “angel grace is a multipurpose celestial substance.” Dean nods again, letting the angel spread his legs, reaching under his knees to rest them on Castiel’s elbows. Then the angel is sliding in effortlessly, bottoming out as Dean arches and writhes beneath him. It’s the most beautiful sight Castiel has ever seen. The most beautiful act Castiel has ever seen. The push and pull; the mingling of heavy breaths; the cries of pleasure, and the scratching of nails on heated, sweaty skin. It’s too much and not enough all at once, even for an angel. He feels the most human when he’s doing this with Dean and he never wants to stop. Not ever.

Castiel lowers his head to Dean’s chest, driving into him as the hunter’s breath hitches, and he keens. He’s getting close to release, but he can’t seem to slow his ministrations. It’s overwhelming. He loves listening to Dean’s heartbeat, now pounding in his chest like a prisoner trying to break free. It’s music to him, Dean’s heartbeat; so fragile, yet so strong and so incredibly precious.

“Cas… _Cas,”_ Dean whines, tugging on the back of Castiel’s head until the angel finally lifts his head and looks at him. “I’m, _fuck,_ I’m close, but I want you to look at me,” his tone pleading between breaths. Castiel nods in reply. “I want to see you when you come, Cas.” The angel leans down and kisses him hard, pistoning his hips faster and faster until he’s seeing stars and crying out Dean’s name like an anguished prayer. Dean’s quick to follow, his eyes rolling back in his head before squeezing them shut, a low moan rolling off is tongue as he spills all over his belly between them. Castiel releases Dean’s legs and collapses on top of him, kissing him with every ounce of love he has in him.

He reluctantly rolls off of Dean a few moments later, waving his hand over the man’s torso, instantly cleaning all remnants of Dean’s orgasm. “Ya know,” Dean muses, running his fingers through Castiel’s hair, “you don’t have to do that, Cas. Sometime, I’d like to keep it there for a little while, just as a reminder of what we did.”

Castiel looks at him perplexed. “You think you might forget we had sex thirty seconds after we… have sex?”

Dean laughs. “Shut up.” His face sobers as he stares into Castiel’s eyes. “Call me a messy, sentimental bastard.”

“I’m not going to call you that, Dean. You’re beautiful and complicated. Rough around the edges, and soft and tender as well. I love you.”

The blush that adorns Dean’s face at the angel’s words could be seen from space. “Yeah…” he coughs and clears his throat, “well… same.”

The next morning finds them sitting maybe a little too close in the kitchen, after a second round of 'horizontal exercise’ as Dean comically referred to it, sipping on steaming cups of coffee and talking about classic rock music (as Castiel had told Dean about hearing the Bob Seger song). They both look wrecked, but in the best of ways; hair in disarray, robes loosely tied around t-shirts and lounge pants. Dean's free hand reaches reaches over to the angel's, and slips under it, intertwining their fingers. He squeezes silently, and a flutter alights in Castiel’s belly.

“Hey guys!” Sam calls, his footsteps getting closer to the kitchen. Castiel tries to pull their hands apart, but Dean only grasps him tighter. The angel smiles to himself. “Are you in the kitchen?” Sam’s still talking as he’s walking, “Listen, I talked to Bobby, and-” he stops abruptly when he reaches the doorway, taking in the scene before him, mouth agape, eyes wide. Dean and Castiel just stare at him lazily. Finally, the tall hunter snaps his mouth shut, clears his throat and takes a breath. “Well…” he starts, an air of sarcasm in his tone. “It’s good to see you two lovebirds fucked your way into a truce,” he deadpans. Dean chokes on his coffee; Castiel’s blue eyes widen like saucers, and Sam smirks. “Anyway, get dressed. We have work to do.” With that, he spins on his heel and leaves the other two reeling.

After a few seconds of complete and utter, and might he add _awkward_ silence, Dean clears his own throat.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” the hunter says, grinning at Castiel. “Come on, angel, let’s go.”

***

The End 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You're kudos and comments mean so much to me, please leave them if you have a second!


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